Trapped
by Sideshow Cellophane 26
Summary: Prequel to 'Dame Boot Camp' - Cecil Terwilliger's time with Professor Vojin in the prison dungeons. Travel deep into the human psyche as Cecil endures this madman's torture methods and experiments, and watch as he either escapes with his sanity intact . . . or completely loses his mind before Sideshow Bob figures out what's going on. Hiatus for now, sorry! :/
1. Captured

"_Prison walls break; new ones awake!" –Carol of the Old Ones_

* * *

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, stopping at the prisoner's cell door.

_Great, just as I was dozing off._

Cecil Terwilliger got up, facing the bars. The man on the other side was the prison therapist, Professor Victor Edmonton Vojin. Nobody trusted him—then again, you wouldn't exactly trust a prison therapist, would you? Especially one with _that_ name.

He stood, smiling, hands behind his back. "Terwilliger, isn't it?"

He scowled. "I passed through group therapy with flying colors, I would thank you very much to remember that."

Above him, Bob snorted and started laughing in his "sleep."

"Yes, yes," he laughed. "And that's why I want to try out something new. We have somebody in here, who has passed as well. Er, who has _almost_ passed. Your family seems to have a very calm demeanor about them, and we want to see how hour man deals with an actual group. We've decided that you're the perfect one out of your family to do this. You will be one of five, including him, in there. Don't worry, you have all passed."

"Ha! And if I refuse?" He smirked. He knew that this was a scandal to get him involved in some sort of mind game. Maybe a mental check-up. Even so, what if this man wasn't stable enough to be with others?

The therapist began to walk away. "Because if you do, your sentence will be dropped from eighty-seven years to a week after the experiment ends—which should be around a month from now. Maybe less."

The door shut with an echo.

From above him, Bob said, "Are you going to accept? I know I would."

He scoffed. "To try to kill Bart Simpson again, I'm sure."

"Damn straight."

"Don't you ever wonder why you always lose? It's because you hesitate. Or over-think your plans. Why, the funeral idea would have worked if you had sped up the whole burning him process!"

"Oh, shut up! My plans are fool-proof! It seems that Lisa Simpson is my main problem. _She_ is the one who always foils my mosaic of murder."

"Amen to that, brother."

"Didn't you attempt to kill them at one point?"

"Yes. She's a worthy enemy. Fascinating. I would try to kill her more often, but when I get out of here I want to stay away from that Vojin. Try not to get caught anymore."

"Good luck with - oh, we've drifted away from the subject. But honestly now, are you going to accept?"

"Of course not! Prison therapists never mean any good. To them, we're all guinea pigs for their little science experiments."

"But for your sentence—"

"They've let us out by simpler means before, and I'm sure they'll do so again. Probably for space, or good behavior. They've let _you_ out numerous times, so why not me?"

"Don't jinx yourself, now."

"Well, I'm still going to stick with no. Therapists have many a reason to keep us in here, especially if you get under their nose. I don't want anything happening to me."

"Uh-huh." You could tell he was rolling his eyes. "Well, on the subject of this stupid decision, I advise you to re-think. Think of the opportunity—we get away from each other. Goodnight!"

* * *

Robert and Cecil were seated at the table in the cafeteria, the hint of a smile on the latter's lips. Neither were talking, but were listening to the other inmates' 'jibber-jabber.'

This mostly consisted of jibber-jabber about how fun it was to say jibber-jabber.

When Cecil heard some of them talking about how one of the inmates, someone named Rory, had been jibber-jabbering about how he and this whole universe (mainly Springfield) was ruled by some man named 'Matt Groening,' whoever he is, the hint of a smile grew to be larger than that.

He turned to Robert, "Interesting origin of the actual term 'jibber-jabber, isn't it?"

He looked up from his half-eaten food. "I don't believe I recall their origins. But do go on, I'm listening," He turned back to his food.

"Jibber," Cecil went on, "was first used by William Shakespeare. Jabber was recorded being used in 1499. The term we know today was first recorded in the Oxford Written Dictionary in 1922, though that most likely wasn't the first time they were put together. They might have also been—"

One of the surrounding inmates, Snake Jailbird, turned to him. "Are you seriously, like, jibber-jabbering about jibber-jabber?"

He sighed. "Well, yes. I suppose I might have been. Why were you listening?"

Before he could say anything threateningly in return, two guards came up behind Cecil.

His smirk turned all the way down. "Did I do something wrong, officers?"

The one on the left grunted. "We were ordered to take you to Professor Vojin's office."

He pursed his lips as Snake slowly slid away from him, chuckling. "Big trouble now, dude," he said under his breath. He got up and moved to another table, mumbling, "An angry Vojin shows no mercy."

"I told him no this morning. You can tell him that, he'll know what I'm talking about."

"We were ordered to," He repeated, "Now come with us."

"But I said—"

"We were _ordered_ to," The guard said darkly.

Cecil locked eyes with his father before he was taken away by the guards.

"But I told him no!"

"Like he cares," The officer scoffed. "Listen Terwilliger, whatever this man wants, he gets. I'm sorry, prisoner. You'll just have to humor the professor. Once he locks his mind on something, it's impossible to stop him from doing it."

* * *

The guard led Cecil down the seemingly endless corridor, turning past all of the jail cells, until they got to a door. It was the therapist's, reading in bold letters 'Dr. Victor Edmonton Vojin.'

_What an ugly name. _

But he didn't say anything out loud. There was a lot of meaning in words, of which must be watched carefully in front of a psychologist. They led him inside.

There was a desk right across from the doorway, with a man hunched over some paperwork, frowning slightly. There were bookshelves on either side of him, a jade plant in every corner, and that was about it.

Dr. Vojin looked up and smiled.

Cecil didn't smile back. He shifted. "I told you no."

"Yes. Yes you did."

He sighed, and followed up on the guard's advice to just humor him. "Well then? Where is everybody?"

"Do you know about the infamous subconscious mind?" The doctor changed the subject abruptly, still smiling.

He shifted some more. The guards were still right behind him. One of them shifted, too. "Well, yes. Of course. But that doesn't have anything to—"

"Are you aware of how everything that is you is made up inside that state of mind?"

He frowned some. "Yes, of course. And that every single memory and second you have ever lived is stored inside there. And that wine tastes good. And that I would absolutely _love_ some right about now."

Dr. Vojin's smile grew wider. Cecil, and the guards, now took a step back. "And do you know how hard it really is to _change_ the personality of a person? Especially one as complicated as yours. It wouldn't take much to change any regular person with a perfectly sane mind, would it now? However, we're in a _prison_. And you seem to have an unusually large temper, just the same as your brother."

Cecil's eyes widened. He said nothing.

"There is always a reason as to why a hardened criminal is who he is. And it generally takes—well, as it is in "Touching Spirit Bear," it takes a drastic measure to change a personality of a criminal. We do have an experiment in mind, Mr. Terwilliger." He got up, walking across the room to stand in front of Cecil. "But it is not exactly with a group."

Cecil said nothing.

"Bring him to the Down Under. We start as soon as he gets there."

The guards hesitantly grabbed onto him. "_What?!"_

"Yeah," said Guard Number One, "These weren't our orders, sir."

"They are now. Now go. Hurry, go!"

* * *

Cecil struggled against the guards' solid arms, trying to shake his own out of their firm grips. They had blank faces, staring only ahead and not at him anytime he cursed them.

This was because one guard was holding his right shoulder with one arm; the other was holding his left forearm with one arm as well. And it drove Cecil insane that he could not escape, that they had stricken him of his rights and dignity like this. That they had followed the professor's orders.

However, he stopped struggling when they stopped at a door.

Already, they had taken him underground, to facilities he had not known were down here. Maybe they weren't even in the prison anymore, who knew?

He pushed the thought out of his mind.

_If we aren't in the prison anymore, then where they hell _are_ we?!_

However, his infuriated glare turned to terror, looking at what was printed on the door. It was propped open by a red brick, so that he couldn't see the outside of it. However, the _other_ side—it had claw marks on it. Somebody had even scratched into the door, "God does not go in her." The final 'e' was partly scratched out, but something—or some_one_—had stopped him.

One of the brutes pushed it farther open with his free hand. They escorted the man inside.

Now, seeing what was in there, he no longer screamed curses at these men—he instead screamed in a mix of horror and a fear he had not known the lengths of ever before in his lifetime, at what lay inside this room.

A series of cages were in here. Animal cages. There was nobody inside any of them, but blood traces inside a few suggested otherwise about past presences. There was a metal table like the kind you would see inside a mental hospital in the center of the room, with long tubes and wires protruding from underneath its base.

_This is what it is! He brought me to his own MENTAL HOSPITAL!_

Vojin stood near this table, holding two long metal tubes. There was a metal table next to him, with various tools and needles on the top.

Cecil struggled as hard and fierce as he could, trying to escape from the grips of whoever these people were, as the door swung shut behind them.

* * *

**For those who haven't read 'Dame Boot Camp?' It's totally okay! This is a prequel! Just read it afterwards and review (hint hint!).**

**And I know I still have things to finish, but inspiration shouldn't be ignored. Especially in my case. :P So, whaddya think? Please, review! Seriously, though. If nobody reviews (as I have had only two people reviewing all of my Simpsons stories), then I probably won't continue. I'm looking into posting most of my stuff on DA now, since I have more alerts/favs than anything on this site. **

**So if you want me to continue with this, please leave a review and tell me so. It'll only take a few seconds out of your lives, and we'll all be happy.**

**Thank you.**


	2. Rebecka

"_When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions!"_

—William Shakespeare's _Hamlet_

* * *

Somebody behind him placed something around his head, and strapped it on tight.

Cecil struggled against his restraints, eyeing the thing in the "doctor's" hands. He watched in mute horror as he added a gooey substance to the ends of the metal contacts, and snapped them into a rubber coat. The guards had turned their tails and ran after making the connection of why exactly Cecil was strapped down. He didn't exactly blame them, but would certainly go after the two if he ever got out of this.

He struggled harder against the restraints as Dr. Vojin walked over to Cecil.

He smiled. "Our experiment, sir, is to truly _change_ a hardened criminal."

"I AM changed! I swear to god, I HAVE!" Even if he hadn't before, the fear of what was going to happen in a matter of seconds certainly did.

The "therapist" smirked and swung the metal plates in the air.

Cecil shut his eyes. For the first time in decades, he wondered if he shut his eyes, then it wouldn't happen. He would not feel it, not let the doctor know his pain, to let him have what he wants.

The first shock jolted through his vulnerable body, making him convulse and almost throw up breakfast.

"W-wh-wh-ha-hat ah-ARE you?!" His voice came out shaky and—he somehow made the connection—mentally disturbed.

"Your sanity savior." Vojin said simply.

Cecil screamed in as much terror as pain as a second jolt was added onto that, and realized something that terrified him to the brink of insanity:

There was nobody who could hear him. And if they did, they didn't care. They wouldn't come.

The last thing he saw before blacking out was a needle, with a lilac filling. It didn't look right, surrounded by all of this grimy grey and dirty white. It hadn't been here long, or was cleaned frequently (if that was the case, then he feared what it did to the other men that were here), as the needle was clean and almost shone from the bare bulb hanging above them. The lilac color, however, was what Cecil saw.

It stuck out.

It was either good or pure evil. Most likely the latter.

Another jolt. He officially blacked out.

* * *

_Smells—chemicals. Chlorine. Something burning. Probably me._

Cecil woke up in one of the cages. Well, it would be unfair to say it was a cage. More like a very small cell; he could still stand in it. This one was clean, thankfully, but still had scratching along the stone walls. He traced one with his forefinger. It said, "LONG LIVE FREEDOM."

He drew in a shaky breath. There was a bit of dried, rust-colored blood in the freedom scratches.

Someone sneezed across from him.

He attempted to jump and discovered he was back into the farther corners of the barred cage, against the wall. He could not move. Across from him, in the cell, was a woman. She had long black hair down to her shoulders, and a dirty and torn lilac shirt. Grey and grimy pants.

She was shivering, and up against the wall just as Cecil was.

He smiled weakly.

She did not smile back. "You're here." Her voice was clear and firm. Strong.

"So are you." Cecil's voice came out shaky and weak. He coughed.

"It's hell."

"Sucks to be us."

She sniffed. "More you. Heard the screaming. He does that often to us."

"Us?"

"Me. And now you."

"How long have you been here?"

"Longer than you."

His head felt ten times worse than just a regular hangover. It was like someone had shoved a rock into his ear. Or two metal tubes. "How are you still alive?"

She shrugged. "Won't give him the satisfaction of seeing the light go out in my eyes. If I could shake your hand, I'd tell you my name's Rebecka. Spelled with one 'c' and a 'k.'"

"And if I could move my body, I would tell you my name is Cecil Terwilliger." He was still sprawled on the ground, but liked talking to her. It felt natural, better than silence all the time, too, from solitary confinement.

Her brow went up. "As in, tried to murder the ten-year-old multiple times?"

"That's my brother, Bob. I almost flooded the entire town once, though."

"Well, got part of it right. It isn't nice to meet you down in here. Nobody deserves it."

"Right back at you."

"So we're trapped in this hell together, huh?"

"Indeed. Were there others before me?"

"Not too many. They disappeared after a while. As bad as it is to say so, now that you're in here."

"What did you do to get in jail period? You're so young."

She gave a small smile. "Thanks. I'm twenty-three. My boyfriend, Henry, used me to get outta a ten year sentence for robbing a bunch of guys."

"You mugged people?"

"I didn't say that," she smiled slyly, "I said he used me. I was framed. It was his doing. I was simply there."

He decided to change the subject. "What has Vojin done to you?"

"Mixed therapist with mad-scientist."

That explained enough. He nodded. "Besides mind games, he hasn't gotten away with anything especially bad, has he? Besides electric therapy?"

She was silent for a few moments, pausing. And shivering. "He made me always cold . . . yes. There's worse, up until he brakes you. I saw it happen before."

"How long have you been here?"

"A very long time."

He was starting to get annoyed now. "Shouldn't we try to escape then?"

"This is a prison, Cecil. If we end up escaping this maze, then the guards up there," she motioned with her head to the ceiling, "will just bring us back down here."

"But they'll see the cages," He realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. If the two guards that brought him down here ran away, and nobody was here now, then anybody else will not help at all.

"They're paid good money to keep their traps shut." A quick shudder. "And to keep us down here until the doc's done."

That interested Cecil. He attempted to lean up on his elbow, but failed and fell to the ground again. "When will he be done?"

"When he brakes you."

"What happens if he doesn't?"

"It gets worse."

"How so?"

"The experiments get worse. When he does finally brake you, you'll be a changed man. But that's the only way outta here." She shrugged. "A lot like those _SAW_ movies, actually."

"Ah . . . not very encouraging, are you?"

She laughed. A dry, hardened sound. He knew then that she had reasons behind the hatred burning in her eyes. "Not after everything he's done to me, no freaking way. You'll learn better too."

"Learn what?" She intrigued him. Tough, but relatable. He would need that influence soon.

"How to outwit the evil shrink. Anyone in your family a psychologist?"

"Just my sister-in-law. And I've learned a few things from watching repeats of _Frasier_."

She nodded, and laughed. "That's a good start. You sound a lot like David Hyde Pierce. Anyone ever tell you that?"

He scoffed. "No, and I don't think I sound one bit like him."

She shrugged, "Well. You've been in prison for a while. Learn anything from inmates?"

"Much."

"All you need to do is stay strong. Don't let em' get to you. We're in this together, *cellmate."

"Cellmate . . . fitting." He smiled weakly at her. "I think this is the beginning of true hell."

She scoffed. "Beginning for _you_ maybe, the middle of it for me."

* * *

*-**This was mentioned in 'Dame Boot Camp,' when Bart and Lisa were playing word association with Cecil. That was before I thought of the plot for that story, so I couldn't really explain why he reacted so strongly to the word 'cellmate.' Now you know. **


	3. Cry For the Damned

"_Cry for the damned; it's been forced upon us!_" –John Blumeere (my own creation—you'll see him in this chapter)

* * *

Cecil broke the gaze from Rebecka to the door. Footsteps echoed outside, and he heard muffled voices. It burst open, and two different guards than the ones that had brought him down carried in a man.

He was screaming for them to let go of him, and had mad, twitching eyes. He looked like he had been here for a while.

Vojin walked in behind them, with his clipboard in hands behind his back and head held high. Both Rebecka and Cecil—well, Rebecka mostly, as Cecil still could not move—gave him death-glares.

The man kept repeating the same words over and over, words that Cecil had been raised not to say. Only until he began working with the slack-jawed yokels at the sight of the Springfield dam, when he was still the chief hydro electrical and hydrodynamic engineer, did he here such vulgar language (coming right after every accident in the construction site) since high school. This man repeated the same curses.

Of course, he could not exactly be blamed.

He was carried to a cage, Cecil and Rebecka watching, and injected with the lilac needle he had seen in the . . . Room. The man screamed, holding his arm where the liquid had been injected into. He looked up at Vojin with those twitching eyes, and silence fell over the room.

"This man here," Vojin said, "is John Blumeere. And this is my latest patient, Cecil Terwilliger. John, meet Cecil. Cecil, John."

He remembered that name. He had been an inmate on the same bus as Cecil's family was, after the fake funeral. Arrested for stabbing his wife and almost killing himself in a convenience store. He didn't have wide, twitching eyes then. He was actually younger than he appeared now, being only in his early fifties, late forties. Right now, he had white and wild hair that was in his eyes—on the bus, dark grey had just barely begun to set in, and he had it cut short.

John looked at Cecil. Still, eyes deranged and mad. He nodded to him, "Good luck to ye, soldier." The voice had changed too. It was raspy, hadn't been before.

He nodded back. "The same to you."

He laughed—it was more of a sharp bark. "Yeah right. Cry for the damned, it's been forced upon us!"

He would remember that throughout this month, and use it to his advantage.

Remember how John began screaming again.

Remember how John lost his mind in merely a few seconds as Vojin sat back and took notes on his damned clipboard.

Cecil's head dropped. He had used up the remains of his energy watching this horrible nightmare. He could now only see and watch how Rebecka's eyes misted over as John's screaming slowly died off, she was shivering, and Vojin's voice carried out into the room.

He could not make out any actual words—he was falling asleep. There were only two or three that made sense, " . . . as I say . . . orget' this whole experiment . . . heart'll stop beating soon enough . . ."

He fell asleep.

* * *

When he did wake up, Rebecka was sitting next to his side. She patted his shoulder. "Hey."

He grumbled. "Dear god it wasn't a dream."

"That was my first thought too, waking up for the first time in this dump."

"Were you alone?"

"Yeah—I didn't have what you do."

"And what is that?"

"A friend." She grinned playfully.

He smirked. "Friends already? Why, we just met!"

"And you haven't bought me a drink yet. Then again—I guess you can't be blamed for that."

"Mm. What happened to that man—John?"

Her grin faded. "Can you move your body?"

He flexed his arm.

She nodded her head behind him solemnly.

Seeing that there were no spasms, he got up on his elbow and looked to where she was pointing. He turned back around. John wasn't in the cage any longer. Unlike any of the other cages, his was wide open.

"Oh." He laid back down.

"Uh-huh. They took his body somewhere after Vojin did something to screw with his mind . . . I don't think he was alive," Her voice dropped to a whisper.

He took her hand in his. It was frigid; she was still shivering. "You're freezing!"

"I know. I have been for a while now . . . You're warm. First warm thing I've run into."

He felt guilty—or pity—and frowned. "I'm fried from that so-called "experiment," so I _would_ be a bit warm. Lay down, then. At least get closer, _you_ feel good to _me_ right now."

"Win-win situation. N'k." She laid down beside him.

Both felt good to the other.

* * *

Bob sighed. Seconds ago, his voice had carried "*_For He is an Englishman_," through the prison hallways. It _still_ echoed some.

The guard next to his cell had put an abrupt stop to the song.

_The first few lines into it. Closed minds are always connected to damned open mouths._

He sat back, against the wall.

Ever since his last prison escape and attempt to kill that spiky-haired demon (a.k.a: Bart Simpson), they had finally come to their senses and assigned a guard to his cell at all times. It wasn't good, but at least some sense was finally knocked into them.

Although they _did_ still let convicts go due to spacing.

Nonetheless, this particular guard, named Jacob, Bob had learned to hate. It was obviously clear that Jacob despised him—he never behaved like the other guards around. The others would slack off, pick up conversations with inmates, even smile. Jacob did none of that. At least, not with Bob around.

He was _always_ paying attention to his surroundings, checked the cell every so often (as if Bob _could_ do anything!), and smiled at everybody except for him.

Had he done something to personally upset this man? Had Jacob been offended by his acts against Bart's life?

Whatever he had done, the damage was there.

Even right now, Jacob turned around to check on him again. In return, Bob grinned. He turned back around, and the grin turned into a scowl.

"And what, might I ask, do you think I am going to do with you standing right there?"

He didn't turn around, but answered, "You've escaped many times before. Terrorized that kid and his family. It won't happen again." His voice was similar to Severus Snape's, from _Harry Potter_. Maybe a bit higher.

"And how do you suppose I might escape? There are guards assigned here all day and night."

Which was true. Jacob only had the daytime shifts, from seven a.m. up until five p.m.

"Exactly. Vojin's a brilliant man. He's the one who suggested it."

This raised an eyebrow. The last time Bob had seen the therapist demand anything was when he visited his and Cecil's cell. Even in group therapy, he didn't so much as raise his voice (his presence period brought a quiet, powerful awkwardness to the room). "Oh?"

"You ain't the only one, trust me. Guards are only assigned to the most dangerous—or _sneaky_—of the criminals," He glared at Bob on 'sneaky.' "Up until Vojin can get to them."

"And what does Vojin do to those men?"

From what he could see, Jacob smiled some. "It's not just _those_ men, it's all inmates in here. He's a psychologist. It's his job to make sure that the crazy people are . . . _fixed_. Once he gets hold of an idea, he don't let it go easily."

"What ideas? What do you mean by 'fixed?'"

He laughed. "Let's just say you're lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Your disappearance would be noticed."

He sat back and said nothing. Perhaps Jacob knew about the therapist and Cecil, or maybe he was only trying to scare him a little.

_Well, I'll just have to have a talk with Vojin to find out!_

* * *

***- **_**H.M.S Pinafore**_**, Gilbert and Sullivan, not mine.**


	4. Second Experiment

"_The louder that I scream, the harder your machines close over me."_

—_Emilie Autumn_

* * *

Every day, Professor Vojin would hold group therapy. The group would all have something in common (say, their crime), to make it easier to converse. Vojin would use that one trait they all shared, and "take another step closer to figuring out the mind of a criminal."

Bob was in the four o'clock group. True to his word, he walked in with Jacob and his head held high. While the guard stationed himself against the door, he went ahead to Vojin.

"Professor."

He was making a few notes on the clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. When Bob approached him, he placed it behind his back. "Terwilliger."

"I have a question, regarding that experiment you asked my brother about."

"Oh?"

"What _was_ the experiment, exactly?"

"That is none of your concern."

"Is Cecil participating in it?"

He stiffened. "Eh, no. He did not wish to partake in it, so I didn't bother him any more on the matter."

"Then where is he now?"

"That isn't my information to give out. Now if you'll take a seat?" He gestured to an empty chair.

"But the guards that took hi—"

"Take a seat. _Please_." He smiled cheerfully after the last threatening comment.

Bob took the seat, frowning.

_He's hiding something . . . What did he do to Cecil?_

* * *

The flames engulfed the man, just as he reached the door. They burnt his flesh, leaving behind the scent of death and raw skin. Even in the dream, the pain was there and _real_. The door disappeared behind him, and a shadow loomed over the wall. He looked at Bob for mercy.

Suddenly, they were at the dam again. Cecil was hanging onto the ledge, as Bob and the boy had. Beneath him, there was an emptiness so black it was as if it wasn't there.

Bob was above him. His eyes weren't the right color—they were brown instead of grey. He didn't have any sign of mercy upon his face. "Look down, brother. Look at hell awaiting you. You'll always be in my shadow. Never freed. Never shown mercy. Look at what you did to yourself and our family."

"Brother, please," Bob knelt down, "I was angry and confused when you entered my life! You were at the wrong place at the wrong time! And you brought up the audition again, and…and…"

Bob was still on his knees. He seemed to be listening, but the look on his face told Cecil he was going to do it.

Bob, all of a sudden, had claws. They dug into Cecil's hands as he whispered, "Maybe so. But I will _not_ show mercy." With that, he swung the claws out, flinging his brother over the cliff. Flinging him into despair.

* * *

A scream threatened to spill out as Cecil sat up. He quickly put his fist in his mouth, a trick taught at an early age. Thank God he trained himself to do so, now that he was being watched at all times. Right?

His eyes swept over the room. It was pitch-black. Not the kind of black that makes children have nightmares—this dark was comforting. It smothered the truth of the room, providing the façade that he was back in his regular cell at least. He blinked, and gave it a couple of seconds before giving a second look.

_There are shadows everywhere_.

But the shadows were shapes, and shapes were cast by objects. He looked in the corner of every wall—there were no cameras. No guards at the door, at least none that he saw. No windows in the room. A complete silence hung over the whole area like a blanket—thick and smothering. A thumping was the only sound now.

It took Cecil a few seconds to realize this was his heart.

He no longer felt Rebecka's presence beside him, or her icy skin on his. Her shadow wasn't in the room. "Rebecka?"

No answer.

Vojin took her.

_Poor thing._

In the darkness, he felt around the front of the cell/cage for the lock. Finding it, his fingers grabbed hold of the hard metal, tracing its shape and figure with his thumb.

What felt like a needle going into his fingers followed that action, and then a bolt of electricity ran through his hand. He drew back with a hiss, noting the trap.

A beam of light flew in from the bottom of the door, making the shadows dance away into the corners of the room. It swung open, and the darkness carried away with it comfort.

Cecil sat up straight as the professor walked in, and nodded a hello.

He did not nod back, but rubbed his eyes.

"Tired?"

His hand dropped.

"Speak, or else," He spoke calmly, yet with authority and threat.

"What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock sharp. P.M."

"How long have I been in here?"

"A day and a half."

He cocked an eye. "I thought your guards took me this morning."

He shrugged, "Your body didn't sit well with our first session."

Cecil stood rod-straight, his arms crossed. "Will I regret asking what you're going to do to me next?"

"Probably."

"What would happen if I refused to come along peacefully?"

The professor snapped his fingers, and two guards—one that he recognized as being outside of his and Bob's cell—stepped through the doorway.

He sighed, nodding. "What are you going to do? _Why_ are you doing this?"

"To quote the immortal Bard, 'Tis the times' plague when the madmen lead the blind.'"

"Ah—plague _when madmen_ lead the blind. You put an extra 'the' in there."

He smiled. "I almost forgot, your mother is—yes, well. You get it. Greedy idiots rule the world today. Why, Mayor Quimby has an affair with his wife every week. The only reason why he married was for publicity in the campaign for mayor."

"Everybody _but_ that woman knows about his affairs," He agreed.

"And Chief Wiggum hardly ever does his job. He takes bribes, arrests the innocent— the list would take too long."

"He bribed Quimby into giving him the job."

"That's true, too."

"Bob was arrested wrongfully at the dam. Everybody protested, but Wiggum arrested him anyway."

"Did you protest?"

"It had already been implied by others."

"So that's a no?"

The tone that he used implied that whatever he was going to do would be even worse if Cecil answered no. "I told the jury that I had planned it all." He shrugged. "Nobody listened."

A suspicious look. "Very well then. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we find a cure for insanity. Follow me." He turned, heading through the white pair of double-doors.

Cecil shuddered at what would happen next. But, eyeing the two guards on his way out, he followed Vojin.

* * *

The metal table hadn't changed a bit. Now that he wasn't strapped down to it, he looked around the rest of the room.

There were three doors altogether—the exit, the one he just came through from the cages, and a red door. Besides the table in the center of the room, there was a corner cut off by a filthy baby blue curtain. The guards stepped beside him, grabbing his arms.

"Hey, _pal_," One of them said.

"How ya' _doin?_'" The other spit on 'doin.'

"What are you doing?!" Cecil panicked. There was no possible way he could stand electrode 'therapy' again. He looked at Vojin. "What are they doing?!"

"We're _escorting_ you," The other guard said.

"Come with them peacefully or we'll go to the chair again," Vojin said, like a mother to her obnoxious children.

Cecil slouched, preferring the cell very much as of right now.

Vojin remained silent as he pulled back the curtains, and walked inside. They "escorted" him to the corner. Behind the wall of fabric were a chair and a . . . bathtub.

These two guards were as strong as the other pair; despite his struggling, they actually managed to drag him to the chair—it looked exactly like Sweeney Todd's. He elbowed one in the ribcage, making that one jump back with an "_Oomph!_" He was only able to take a single step forward before the other stomped on his gigantic foot. He yelped, and they both grabbed him again.

They zip-tied his wrists to the arms of the chair, and blindfolded him. Vojin chuckled. "My, my, prisoner #40D27CT." He tsked-tsked. "I _told_ you to behave."

The chair was laid back, so Cecil was almost lying down.

He wrenched his wrists as somebody tore a hole—about three or four inches in diameter—on the chest in his prison uniform, and placed a cold, circular, _heavy_ object on his bare skin beneath.

"What are you doing?! Why are you _doing_ this?!"

"We're conducting an experiment."

"That only raises further questions!"

No answer, but he could imagine that smirk on the professor's face.

Because of the cruelty shown in Blumeere's death, it was obvious the profess—the _madman_ would not react to any sort of threat, plead, or accusation thrown out.

_Vojin is doing this because of the criminal mind—therefore he wants to rid the world of injustices . . . injustices—acts. Laws. Rights._

"I have God-given _rights_, dammit!"

"Not here, you don't." Vojin's voice sounded distant, far-off.

_Hm. Well, it was worth a shot._

"Let her go, boys."

A cage swung open—Cecil felt chills going up and down his spine as whatever was "her" scuttled out and onto the floors, like nails brushing against metal. They set the cage down.

A door shut across the room. They had left him with '_her_.'

"Hello?"

Scuttling. A pause. Scuttle, scuttle, pause. Scuttle, scuttle, pause.

Now he could only feel the weight of the circle on his chest. It emitted a sweet odor, like lavender.

_To attract her to me._

But what was she?

Scuttle, scuttle, pause. She zig-zagged across the room, but nearer and nearer to him nonetheless. It didn't sound like anything big (say, he knew Scooby Doo didn't have over-grown nails), but it definitely wasn't a regular tarantula.

Phantoms swayed in the back of his mind, deadly ideas of what she could be. There was the South American Goliath Bird-Eater, the second-largest spider in the world. It was known to attack in self-defense, with venomous fangs large enough to break skin. He thought of one of these almost immediately, and slowly began to wiggle his wrists around the zip-ties.

Maybe Vojin wasn't only a psychologist.

Fear and panic began to seize his mind—maybe Vojin was a _geneticist_ too . . . No. He shoved the thought out of his mind.

_Calm down . . ._

Scuttle, scuttle, pause.

_Calm down . . . God. It can't be more than fifteen feet away from me._

Scuttle, scuttle, pause_._

Besides mutated spiders, there was always another clawed animal, but something that was small and fast. A mutated Thumper.

_He said 'her,' though. _

Scuttle, scuttle, pause.

Within ten feet now. Perhaps she was even rabid.

_A rabid mutated bunny . . . I need to get my thoughts under control._

He tensed his muscles as it came within at least five feet of him, getting closer still. And then . . . a hand tickled his ribs, and he laughed after a brief split-second in shock. His blindfold was ripped off.

"Ticklish, eh?" Vojin chuckled.

Cecil hated himself, and blushed.

"Fear is what brings mankind together," Vojin said, looking at a chart. "Your heart rate increased dramatically when the sound got louder, sounds switching from speaker to speaker . . ." He looked up. "Which, I assume, you thought was "her" getting closer, correct?"

He stuttered in bewilderment—the fear was _real_, he knew there was something in there with him! "Wha—who-but…"

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

He took a careful look around the room; there were speakers wedged where the walls and ceiling met. There were cameras directly beneath them as well.

He finished scribbling and took out a needle. "Now then."

Cecil shriveled back, twisting his wrists against the zip-ties. By now, they were wet with something warm and oozing—blood or sweat, he didn't know. His eyes were on the needle, which held a brown liquid inside it.

"This," Vojin said, "is the beginning of our studies, my friend."

"I'm not your _friend_," He spat out, "And I want _out_ of this!"

He took hold of his right arm, and injected the liquid into his bicep. "There is no going back now, Terwilliger. You shouldn't have been so sloppy at the dam." He backed up a little, placing the needle on the table next to the electrotherapy table, and watched as Cecil lay back his head against the headrest, miserable.

'So sloppy?' He had not been sloppy, except maybe . . . He should have shot them while they were cornered in the room. But, he held nothing against Bart and Lisa at the time. Bob, though his brother, he would have killed without a second thought. But because Cecil didn't, the children lived only to become a giant sore in their lives. Bob now has a happy-ish family. And he was now in Hell. But - if the children helped Bob, maybe they would help him!

Brown blobs began to appear out of thin air, dancing in front of his eyes. They went up and down in a perfect line, zig-zagging across his vision. He watched until they moved out of range of his sight. When they disappeared entirely he felt a sense of foreboding, and slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

As soon as he woke up, Cecil gasped for breath, and sat up with sweat on his brow. He felt a cool draft reach through the hole in his shirt. He looked down at it, sighing, and noticed the rest of the filthy uniform. It had been torn at the sleeves, had black splotches from the electrode therapy, and was covered with dust.

He began coughing just at the realization that the offensive particles were so close to his face, and pulled off the shirt. Something silver fell out onto the floor, but he didn't pay it any notice.

Cecil crawled over to the bars of the cage and began rattling on them. "_Let me OUT of here!_"

Nobody came. The pricking sensation on his hands did not bother him.

He shook the bars and swore at Vojin until his voice grew hoarse. He sat back, coughing, and stared down at his hands. They were bloody from the electrical current that ran through the cage door.

As Cecil stared, his left eye twitched.

Across from him, Rebecka stared grimly. She coughed, and they met eyes.

He now noticed the silver key that had been placed in his pocket by one of the guards at his feet.


	5. Dreams

_Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;  
And with a look so piteous in purport  
As if he had been loosed out of hell  
To speak of horrors,—he comes before me."_

—_Hamlet, William Shakespeare_

* * *

It was night.

Bob was in a dream. This much he knew, from the blurred images of guards standing outside of cells. But they weren't guards—shadows. They weren't moving; he touched one. It felt ice-cold, like marble, and turned to Bob, making him jump. The only visible thing other than the body shadow was its red glowing eyes. The only feeling he could gather from that glare was _evil_. He knew what the look was, and what it felt like (having given plenty of the death-glares before). But this was a different sort of evil than revenge—it wasn't something he'd ever encountered. Bob only felt that this man—all of these guards in the prison, whatever they were—would inflict pain upon innocents for the fun of it, not for revenge, or for any right reason. Much like being in the middle of the worst side of prison (where the _truest_ of the true sick, malicious men were kept).

He backed away from it, shuddering.

All of the guards had red eyes now, guarding nothingness in the cells. Almost floating around each top horizontal bar of them was a lock. Though it didn't seem like that would do much of anything to keep each shadow inmate inside (if there were any, which there weren't), it just made sense in the dream. Bob was standing at the end of the prison hallway.

At the opposite end was another cell. Ordinary looking. Dark. But unlike the rest, there was somebody in it. Bob approached the slowly moving figure cautiously, well aware of the shadow guards' eyes glaring holes into the back of his head.

Now that he was getting closer, he saw that the end of the hallway was not a dead-end, but formed a capital T-shape into yet another set of corridors from each end. The prison was a maze, he realized, that he could not escape from. Not until he approached the shadow-inmate.

The man was bent over in the corner, shuffling with something Bob could not see.

"Hello?" His voice traveled into the corridors, a wavering echo.

The man stopped moving.

He still couldn't make out the person. "Who are you?"

Silence.

The feeling that the guards were getting closer to him caused a quick spin. Just to look—none had budged. Just as he started to look back at the figure, their necks all snapped as they turned to look at him. None moved after that.

He hesitantly turned back around after counting to thirty. There were no guards over here, but the feeling of dread filled this area. "Are you alright?"

There was no sound as the man stood and turned around.

He took in a deep breath. The silhouette was Cecil, in the form of another shadow-man. His hair was messed up, arms flat against his side and legs together.

His eyes were red.

But, instead of giving off the same evil vibe the guards gave off, his were turned the opposite way in a look that screamed he was in pain. He whispered something that Bob couldn't make out.

"What?"

Whispers.

He stepped up to the bars, and placed a hand on the top horizontal bar with the lock on it. A jolt of electricity made him yank it back in pain. "_Ah!_"

Even with the blue flash of light that came from the floating lock, Cecil's features still couldn't be made out.

He whispered again.

"Speak up dammit, I can't hear you! What happened to you? What has Vojin done?"

Cecil reached between the bars and grabbed Bob's hand. He whispered again, "*_It is not, nor it cannot, come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Help me, Bob."_ His red eyes widened into circles, and he backed away into a corner shivering.

Bob felt them come up behind him. He did not fear anything easily. Hell, there wasn't much of anything in the world that terrified him except for ideas of what could happen. Simple 'what-ifs.' Nothing physical, except the kind of pain other inmates may inflict upon one in a fight. But that wasn't terrifying, it was painful.

He turned.

The shadow guards were coming towards him like a mix of slowly moving spirits and starving zombies. The dread that hung in the air was poisoned by the evil. Foreboding _doom_ came towards him in _waves_ with each of their movements, and with _power_.

_Too much power._

Bob turned around, looking at Cecil.

He was gone. Absorbed into the shadows of this place.

He turned and backed into the cell door, another jolt of electricity braking him out of numbness, making him run to the left, down that empty corridor, and to the left again. He stopped.

There was an exit sign, hanging right above a door at the end of the hallway.

The shadows were coming, and coming faster now. Suddenly, he was in slow motion, and they were at normal speed. They all caught up to him within seconds, claws coming out of their fingertips.

Whatever kind of dream this was, it was anything _but_ a nightmare.

Professor Vojin came to the front, smirking at Bob. The demons backed away, leaving him with only a tear in his sleeve.

He was numb, unable to move.

The therapist held out his arms, "My patients…"

Bob's eyes widened.

He put his arms down and pointed at Bob. "Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind."* His voice boomed through the walls.

He opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak.

"Tis _our_ time today, in this world . . . _madman_." With the last word, the ghosts leapt at Bob, claws tearing into his clothing and skin and—

Bob woke up gasping, in a regular cot. In a regular cell.

Regular guards.

He lay back down, and then leaned over the side. Still, nobody on the bottom bunk. He _knew_ that wasn't merely a simple dream. Never before had he felt physical pain or such terror in a nightmare alone. Even in reality, nothing seemed to be able to cause anything like that at all. Springfield was almost silly in its way of life—like a cartoon, everything turned out fine in the end (mostly). When in reality, with his terrorization of Bart Simpson's life and family, any regular child would be cowering in fear of the very thought of a homicidal maniac on their heels.

They had almost become acquaintances at some points of his many schemes.

In not being a part of this . . . _cartoon_, Bob's life was serious. As in, affected by reality. He felt as if this world was not supposed to be his own.

_Like a book. My life is almost controlled like the plot in a book, or movie, or cartoon!_

But only when he crossed paths with the Simpsons, or Springfield. Vojin took away all sense of the cartoon feeling. He did not play a role in Springfield, or was supposed to—like a parasite, or a virus in a computer, he wasn't supposed to be there.

_Mess up the plot of a story, disrupt the entire book. Dire consequences occur, and the parasite has complete control._

And now, for once, there was something _rotten_ in the town of Springfield. And it all centered around Professor Vojin.

* * *

**Forgive me. School and writer's block. Those are my excuses.**

***- **_**Hamlet,**_** William Shakespeare. Not mine, of course.**


End file.
